


Mirage

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 12:06:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21373882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Spock visits the watering hole.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 16
Kudos: 115





	Mirage

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The journey to the oasis takes approximately nine point six hours traveling on foot, but it’s necessary for survival. There is no water source closer to his shelter, and there is no shelter by the oasis. The desert is a flat, merciless plane, which would burn him alive at the sun’s peak and freeze him to death at its lowest descent. Spock must make the long trip at precisely the right time, as his father did before him and his grandfather before that, all the way back to Surak first discovering the spring. Spock carries two enormous buckets in each hand, intending to take all that he can, enough to sustain his clan for another several days. If a wild la matya should catch him, or his own legs simply give out, Stonn will be sent in his stead, and the tradition will continue. 

Spock prefers to be the one to go. He always volunteers. No one else ever does. No one else has ever mentioned the same incentive that he finds waiting for him, and under the influence of the broiling desert heat, Spock can’t help but wonder if it’s all a trick of his dizzy mind. 

He finally reaches the little oasis, hidden between the rolling hills, and he drops to his knees at the water’s edge. Only there is the sand cool enough to touch. As fit as he is, Spock is already breathing hard, his body slick with sweat. His throat is dry, and before he makes any other moves, he cups his hands beneath the surface and brings the water to his mouth. He slurps it down with a feral hunger, careless of the way it sloshes down his chin. His cracked lips chase the remnants. His sanity slowly comes back to him, and his vision clears. 

The few tall trees, leafless along their spiral trunks, offer a small scrap of shade and protection from the raging wind. He can see the dust storms in the distance, but the immediate area is clear—crystal clear—the water glimmers in the evening sunlight, calm and steady. It gently laps against the peach chest of a man half embedded in it, lounging at the far side of the pool. 

Jim smiles at him and says, “You came back.”

Still struggling to recover, Spock can only nod. He always must come back. Then he must gather what water he can and head home—another nine hours, first in the searing heat, then, suddenly, when the sun passes the horizon, through the bone-chilling cold. His heart will pound in his ears, pulse spiking every time he hears the cry of a wild animal. The sand will kick up around his face and try to make him lose his way—he’ll have only his own memory by which to find his path. It’s a grueling process, but it’s worth it to see Jim’s handsome smile. 

Jim asks, “Will you stay with me this time?”

Spock wants to. He _desperately_ wants to. He wants to shed his robes and slip into the water, rest against Jim’s shoulder, and wake to Jim’s surety and charm. He wants more of their banter, their passing games—the strange, alien company that Jim always offers. But he can’t stay for long. One conversation is all there’s time for, or he won’t make it home before the night turns the sand to ice. Jim tells him, “It’s amazing you made it this far.”

“It is required,” Spock answers, because he’s a Vulcan adult and has no need of praise. He did only what he had to. Jim always seems to provide a little _more_. He’s solid, grounding, but offers a tantalizing hint of forbidden _emotion._ He suddenly moves forward, swimming towards Spock, bare shoulders stirring the surface. Spock watches the water distort his image underneath. 

He comes to where Spock is and presses, “At least join me for a moment. I won’t ask more than that.”

Jim has a way about him: a sense of _command_ that Spock feels obliged to follow. Logic dictates otherwise. Spock wants to obey him.

But Spock is already late, having had to detour around the quickly-fading footprints of a predator. He hasn’t the time. He promises, “On my next trip, I will.”

Jim sighs but nods. He watches idly as Spock fills each bucket to the brim, then allows himself another drink. The water is best at its source, and the company makes it divine. When he’s finished, his eyes connect with Jim. He wants to splay his fingers along Jim’s face, bring their minds together, and discover why it is that Spock finds him so irresistible. 

But Spock doesn’t dare _touch_ the scintillating creature before him, because he’s afraid that his fingers will push right through the vision, and he’ll have hard proof that Jim has never truly been there. 

He rises to his feet again, hiking up the buckets. Jim murmurs, “Good bye, Spock,” and wades back into the water: the most beautiful part of his mirage.


End file.
